


The Sex Rule

by jehans



Series: Boldly [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Star Trek
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Combeferre and Feuilly are Rule 63'd, Crossover, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 02:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehans/pseuds/jehans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras tries to blow off some steam, Jehan <i>really</i> wants to get a room, Bahorel is a living legend, Grantaire is annoyed, no one will acknowledge Courfeyrac's badassery, and Starfleet Academy is a grueling experience for everybody.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sex Rule

Starfleet Academy is not for the faint of heart. Today alone, with a morning packed with intensely rigorous physical training, the shortest lunch break he’s had in a while, and then an afternoon of mindfucking tactical simulation followed by _hours_ of debriefing with Commander Javert, going over every detail and decision that he had gotten wrong, has been exhausting for Cadet Enjolras.

But no one has ever _once_ accused Enjolras of being faint of heart.

And all the exhaustion really just makes it all the nicer that he’s got a boyfriend to curl up on when the day is over.

Jehan is, thankfully, alone when Enjolras punches in the keycode to his boyfriend’s room and slips in. It’s not that Enjolras doesn’t love Courfeyrac, too — the three of them grew up together, signed up together, will make it through this together — but after a day like today, he really just wants to quietly be with Jehan.

Jehan looks up from a mound of books he’s poring over at the foot of his bed and smiles when Enjolras enters, the door sliding shut behind him.

“Hey,” he says softly, sounding almost as tired as Enjolras feels. “Long day?”

“Very long,” Enjolras confirms, kicking off his shoes and climbing into the bed over his boyfriend, lying down on top of him and burying his face in Jehan’s neck. “Studying?”

Jehan chuckles. “When am I not studying?” he asks. And it’s true. Not only is Starfleet Academy a constant challenge physically and tactically, it’s also extremely strenuous academically. And with every cadet representing the greatest young minds in the galaxy, the competition is intense, to say the least.

Enjolras doesn’t answer except to press a sweet kiss into the soft of Jehan’s neck, causing a low moaning sound from his boyfriend.

“That’s kind of distracting,” he giggles, turning his head so that he can look at Enjolras’ face.

“What if I mean it to be?” Enjolras breathes into his ear and Jehan shivers.

“Enjolras, I have to study,” he says rather reluctantly.

Enjolras pulls back a little and nods. “Okay,” he says lightly. “I don’t mind just laying here if that’s okay with you.”

But that makes Jehan full on laugh. “Fuck you,” he says teasingly, “you’re supposed to try to _seduce_ me.”

He starts to roll over and Enjolras pushes himself up on his elbows just enough for him to do so without breaking physical contact and frowns. “But you said you had to study, I thought you meant it?”

“I _do_ mean it,” Jehan giggles, “but I want you to distract me from it.”

Jehan is grinning up at Enjolras, who still looks confused but not displeased. “Why didn’t you say that?”

“That sort of defeats the whole seduction thing,” Jehan tells him, still grinning. “But I probably should have known you wouldn’t pick up on that. So how about you just kiss me and we’ll call it square?”

Enjolras smiles and ducks down to press his lips against Jehan’s, letting out his own little wanting sound when long fingers slide into his hair and he’s pulled even closer.

When Jehan’s hips rut up against his, he moans again and pulls away a little while Jehan makes a sound of protest.

“I imagine Courfeyrac will be home soon?” Enjolras gasps, and Jehan rolls his eyes.

“I’m sure Courfeyrac won’t mind stepping back out for a while,” he practically growls, using his grip around Enjolras’ shoulders to pull himself up enough to press their bodies together again. “Besides, he’s out on a Tactical Training exam, he could be gone all evening.”

“Or he could walk through the door in three minutes right as one of us is taking the other’s pants off.”

Jehan smirks and opens his mouth to say something but Enjolras cuts him off by kissing him soundly, then rolling off of him, ignoring the adorable little whining noises this causes. He perches on the edge of the bed and reaches out to stroke Jehan’s hair out of his face instead.

“And you do have to study,” Enjolras murmurs.

Jehan turns his face into Enjolras’ hand and nuzzles his palm, then kisses it gently.

Enjolras sighs shortly. “We can have sex later,” he promises quietly. “When we’re alone.”

“We’re alone _now!_ ” Jehan protests, wiggling to curl around Enjolras.

Enjolras smiles and opens his mouth to respond, but then the door swooshes open and Courfeyrac skips in.

Jehan winces. “ _Fuck._ ”

Courfeyrac pauses and frowns. “Nice to see you too!” he says as Enjolras chuckles a little. Then he looks at both of them and cracks a grin. “Am I interrupting?”

“Yes!” Jehan cries as Enjolras shakes his head.

“No, you’re not,” he assures Courfeyrac. “How was Tactical Training?”

“Awesome!” Courfeyrac cries enthusiastically, bouncing onto his bed. “I led my team and we motherfucking _won_ that shit, son. But now I’m starving. Do you guys wanna go to dinner?”

“Yes,” Enjolras answers immediately (because he suddenly realizes he’s starving too) while Jehan pouts up at him. The pout goes away when he cards his fingers gently through Jehan’s soft curls.

Jehan smiles and hums happily and then sighs. “All right,” he concedes, “dinner sounds good.”

 

When the trio make their way into the mess hall (Jehan and Enjolras holding hands and Courfeyrac between and behind them both, arms around their shoulders), Cadet Grantaire rolls his eyes and groans.

“What?” Cadet Combeferre asks, spinning around to try to see what he’s looking at and latching onto the blur of red and gold hair that’s flitting toward the food. “Oh,” she laughs, shifting back and digging into her own dinner again. “What is your problem with them?”

Grantaire huffs. “Not _them_ ,” he says loftily. “I have no problem with the ginge, and the Jehan kid’s pretty sweet, actually. It’s his holier-than-thou boyfriend I take issue with.”

Combeferre cocks an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. She does smirk, however, as she continues eating, which Grantaire notices right away.

“I don’t want to date either of them!” he cries immediately. “The Enjolras kid is in my Earth History course and _oh my fucking god_.”

Combeferre raises both eyebrows now. There’s really only a little bit of Vulcan in her blood comparatively, but it’s always evident when she makes this face. “Bit of a character?” she asks.

“That,” Grantaire says, jabbing violently toward the subject of his rage with his fork, “is _the_ single most pretentious sonofabitch I have ever met in my life.”

“Besides you,” Combeferre mutters, but Grantaire is talking again and probably doesn’t hear her.

“And he’s only a first year! I mean Jesus Christ — who, by the way, would not have been _nearly_ as uppity in his first year at Starfleet Academy as _Cadet Enjolras_.” He finishes the rant off with a mumbled, “ _Mother fucking fourth class_ ,” and then stabs viciously at his salad.

“Grantaire,” Combeferre says evenly, a wry twist in her voice, “when we were first years, I seem to recall a certain Survival Strategies course in the field where you planted your ass in the middle of the open and refused to move until our instructor admitted there was no logical way to survive the simulation.”

The smile that spreads across Grantaire’s face is entirely too self-satisfied for his own good. “Yeah, that was a good day,” he recalls fondly.

“You failed the course,” Combeferre points out. “You had to take it again as a third class while you were doing your field training.”

“Yeah, but that lieutenant commander _admitted_ there was no way to survive the assignment and no one ever did that again in Survival Strategies.”

Combeferre pauses a moment before saying in an impressive deadpan, “The Kobayashi Maru.”

“That,” Grantaire says immediately, jabbing his fork in the air again, this time at Combeferre, “is _supposed_ to be unwinable. It’s designed that way. It’s stupid, but that’s how it is. You’re _supposed_ to be able to _survive_ in Survival Strategies.”

As she can’t actually argue with that logic, Combeferre says nothing. Grantaire is probably her closest friend, which is an odd thing to think, considering how vastly different they are, but somehow in that first year they sort of latched onto each other and they haven’t let go since. She’s fond of him, even with all of his eccentricities. Probably because of them, actually.

She reaches across the table to skewer a tomato out of his salad with her fork and pop it in her mouth, and he doesn’t object.

 

Across the hall, Jehan is dropping his tray down next to Feuilly, who runs faintly green fingers through fiery red hair (redder than Courfeyrac’s) and smiles at him, and across from Joly, who’s poking dubiously at his food before he eats it.

“Good evening, cadets,” Jehan says to them in his best serious-face impression, which earns him a grin flashed in his direction by Feuilly, and a surprised nervous laugh from Joly. Enjolras slides in on his other side a moment later and silently rests a hand on his thigh, a seemingly thoughtless gesture except Jehan knows him better than that.

Courfeyrac flops down next to Joly as Jehan glances subtly over at Enjolras and smiles warmly.

“Who kicks ass at this table?” he asks, grinning around at all of them.

“I think we can probably guess the answer you’re looking for is you,” Feuilly says, her lips curling slightly, “but I’m disinclined to actually supply that for you.”

Courfeyrac actually pouts at her while shoveling potatoes into his mouth, which is kind of impressive, and Joly leans distastefully away from him as potato bits spew everywhere.

Enjolras has started to circle his fingers lightly on Jehan’s leg and Jehan has to resist squirming underneath them. He’s not doing as good a job as Enjolras at keeping his face straight, though, and when Feuilly turns to say something to him, she stops short and smirks.

“You guys should get a room,” she snorts, turning back to her food instead.

“I was trying to!” Jehan cries indignantly, and Enjolras’ fingers squeeze his leg. “But then _someone_ had to come home from training and _someone_ had to be hungry.”

“Enjolras was hungry too!” Courfeyrac protests, mouth still full. Joly looks like he’s contemplating moving over a seat.

Jehan groans and leans into Enjolras’ arm. Enjolras responds by holding his fork up to Jehan so he can eat from it.

Feuilly rolls her eyes but Joly looks worried. “You’re not supposed to have sex in the dorms,” he says quietly. “There are all those rules about not bringing women back or going to their rooms. . . .”

“Nobody follows, those,” Courfeyrac laughs dismissively. “And neither Enjolras nor Jehan are women, so.” He shrugs, like his point has been made.

“But if they get caught —”

“We won’t get caught,” Jehan tries to assure Joly calmly, but Enjolras shoots him a slightly dubious look he doesn’t see and Joly is not assuaged.

Courfeyrac swallows another massive bite and says, “I’d clear out for the night, but I have a huge test tomorrow in Interspecies Protocol and I need the room to study. Joly, d’you wanna crash on Jehan’s bed, give the lovebirds — and by that I mean these horny motherfuckers — a little space tonight?”

Jehan looks delighted at the idea, but Joly looks hesitant. He’s about to open his mouth to protest again when he’s distracted by a towering figure tapping him on the shoulder and asking if he knows where Combeferre is. Joly looks up at the intimidating figure and mouths a little — he’s only really peripherally aware that Combeferre is one of the third years — but then a gorgeous Orion girl next to the huge first class cadet taps him and says, “Nevermind, Bahorel, I see them,” and they both take off again.

Bahorel is something of a legend in Starfleet Academy. He’s in his fifth year, which shouldn’t technically be possible, and no one who actually knows _why_ will talk about it, so the urban legends surrounding him are wild and many.

It doesn’t hurt that he’s also part Klingon. Probably half, from the looks of it. The Klingon race are enemies of the Federation, so a Klingon Starfleet cadet — even a part Klingon cadet — is unheard of. And Bahorel never talks about his family except to make up clearly fake stories about them and then laugh his booming, loud laugh in your face, so people have generally stopped asking.

Also, he’s fucking massive and everyone is intimidated by him.

Which has always confused Musichetta, the Orion girl he’s always around, because he’s one of the sweetest, friendliest people she’s ever known. And she’s Orion.

Breaking away from Musichetta for a minute, Bahorel circles the long table where Combeferre and Grantaire are now arguing about something and plops himself down next to Grantaire, who shoves at him without looking. Musichetta slips in next to Combeferre instead, running thin green fingers through Combeferre’s hair and grinning as Combeferre turns to her and smiles warmly, reaching out to pull her in for a kiss.

“Hey, rude,” Grantaire protests, “I was in the middle of making a point! And where the fuck is _my_ kissing partner?”

“I think she’s studying in her room,” Bahorel supplies, tilting back onto the back two legs of his chair.

Grantaire smirks. “And I think I’m finished eating,” he says, shoving back from the table.

“Dude, I just got here!” Bahorel protests, and Grantaire reaches over to pat him on the head, then dodges the ensuing fist.

“Unless, _you_ want to make out with me,” Grantaire laughs, “I’m leaving you with these two.” He gestures toward Combeferre and Musichetta, who are whispering to each other now, and brushing noses. Bahorel makes a gagging noise.

“I like neither option,” he grumbles.

Grantaire just laughs and skips off.

For all their cuteness, Combeferre and Musichetta are actually pretty considerate and when Grantaire disappears, they settle against each other but stop kissing and nuzzling each other.

Not that Bahorel is actually paying much attention. He’s leaning forward over the table and peering back at the group of fourth class cadets he and Musichetta consulted.

“Do you know who that is?” he asks in a low voice.

“Who?” Musichetta asks, turning a little in her seat to look. “The nervous med kid you talked to? I don’t know, but he’s a cutie.”

“No, the girl across from him,” Bahorel corrects, waving a hand. “The one with the vivd hair. She looks like she’s got some Orion in her.”

“Yes, because we all know each other,” Musichetta says, the dryness in her voice _almost_ as impressive as her girlfriend’s. “We go to meetings every Thursday.”

Combeferre snorts.

Bahorel glares at them both. “Seriously, though,” he presses.

Musichetta laughs, “I don’t know her, asshole.”

“Sorry,” Combeferre laughs.

Across the room, the redheaded girl runs her fingers through her wild curls again, flipping them over her head, and Bahorel groans.

 

“Would you stop flinging your hair all over the place?” Courfeyrac laughs at Feuilly. “There are little red hairs flying _everywhere_.”

“You’re one to talk, Mr. Pompadour,” Feuilly shoots back, pointedly flipping her hair again. 

“That was _Bahorel_ ,” Joly says for the third time, which makes both Feuilly and Courfeyrac roll their eyes and Jehan reach across to pat his hand soothingly.

“Yes, that was Bahorel,” Courfeyrac groans. “Living legend Cadet Bahorel: Terror of the West!”

“No one calls him ‘Terror of the West’,” Feuilly says.

“How do you know?” Courfeyrac demands.

“Because you just made that up.”

“Well then _I_ call him Terror of the West.”

“I’m gonna tell him you said that,” Feuilly says smirking, and Courfeyrac pales.

“Don’t you dare —!”

“Oh, for _fuck’s sake!_ ” Jehan suddenly shrieks, leaping from his seat and dragging Enjolras up with him and then out of the mess hall, leaving their friends to looked bemusedly after them.

 

It takes a couple of minutes to get from the mess hall up to Enjolras’ and Joly’s dorm room, and between the way Enjolras’ fingers were trailing up and up and up his thigh under the table and the way those same fingers keep lighting on the small of his back as they walk, slipping under the band of his uniform trousers, Jehan can’t take it anymore when the door swooshes open and immediately swings Enjolras around, pinning him up against the wall and kissing him _hard_.

Enjolras huffs and melts into the kiss. Joly is downstairs and Courfeyrac will keep him from going back home for a while, so there’s little threat of getting walked in on, and _god_ does he want this. Wrapping his arms around Jehan, he spins them both until his boyfriend is the one pressed up against the wall, and then crowds him, ducking to kiss down the line of Jehan’s throat while he reaches down to hook one of Jehan’s legs up over his hip and Jehan’s fingers slide into his hair.

“What has gotten _into_ you tonight?” Jehan laughs breathily in Enjolras’ ear. “You’re not usually so public about this.”

“I wasn’t meaning to be public,” Enjolras says, a little breathless himself, as he rolls his hips against Jehan’s and Jehan lets out a desperate kind of moan.

“You practically had your hand down my pants,” Jehan growls. “What is it? Did something happen?”

Enjolras _hmmph_ s and shakes his head a little, stretching up to kiss Jehan’s face as his fingers start on getting his boyfriend’s uniform shirt off and Jehan’s leg tightens around his waist. “No, it’s just —“ he mutters, “— my tactical simulation was frustrating.”

“Ahh,” Jehan breathes in understanding. He nods and pulls Enjolras in to kiss his mouth again.

Jehan gets it, which Enjolras loves. Starfleet Academy is grueling, and command training takes no prisoners, and Enjolras holds himself to the absolute highest, most impossible of standards. Jehan knows all of this.

And when Enjolras really just needs to blow off some steam and let go of all of that control, Jehan knows what to do.

Once Jehan’s shirt is off, Enjolras slips his hands up into Jehan’s hair.

Jehan lets out a little sigh. “I miss my long hair,” he says softly, closing his eyes and letting Enjolras kiss lines across his face.

Before they signed up, Jehan’s curls had tumbled past his shoulders. He used to wear them braided, or up in a loose bun, or sometimes he’d let them hang loose and catch the wind. But the night he and Enjolras and Courfeyrac had decided they were going to go in Starfleet, he’d asked them to cut those curls off. Now they hang just around his ears.

“I like your hair like this,” Enjolras murmurs. “And you _were_ right, it’s more practical. Imagine how many times you’d have gotten your hair pulled in combat training if it was still as long as it used to be.”

The hidden implication there, because plenty of women cadets still wear their hair long and manage fine, is that Jehan probably would have been targeted by bullying assholes even more than he already is if he’d come to the academy with his hair the way it used to be. And Jehan knows this is true.

But he does miss his long hair.

He imagines it probably would have been pulled outside of combat training, too, the way Enjolras’ hands are fisting in it now.

“What the fuck is taking you so long?” Jehan sighs.

“Hmm?” Enjolras is mouthing at his earlobe now.

Jehan huffs. “My clothes should be _off_ by now,” he mutters demandingly, “and so should yours.”

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Enjolras laughs softly.

“You are not,” Jehan responds. “Take my pants off. Now.”

Enjolras surrenders. Silently, and quickly, he undoes the fastening on Jehan’s pants until he can shove them down around Jehan’s ankles, then he strips out of his own uniform while Jehan is stepping out of his pants and boxers and now Enjolras is pressing his body flush against Jehan’s again, but this time they’re just skin on warm skin and Jehan’s fingers are pressing into Enjolras’ shoulders, fingernails surely leaving angry red marks, as their mouths work violently against each other.

Jehan makes a sound as Enjolras hoists him up so he can wrap his legs around his waist, and pins him between his body at the wall. He’s preparing to move them to the bed, and Jehan knows this, so he quickly grunts, “No, here.”

“Here?” Enjolras gasps breathlessly. Jehan’s teeth are grazing his jaw.

“Here,” Jehan breathes firmly. “Against the wall.” His fingers tighten even more and Enjolras can feel fingernails digging into his scalp. “ _Fuck me, Enjolras._ ”

Enjolras moans against Jehan’s ear and reaches out toward the nearby desk — Joly’s actually, but it’ll have what he needs — to fumble in the drawer.

Jehan is arching back against the wall, his head tilted back to expose his long, pale neck, gasping as Enjolras’ fingers slip inside him — when there’s a pounding on the door.

“Cadet Enjolras,” a familiar voice booms through the door as Jehan stiffens and Enjolras’ fingers retract, “open this door.”

“Fuck,” Jehan hisses into Enjolras’ ear, “Javert.”

They’re still pressed, naked, against the wall, against each other, and Commander Javert is the very last person you want to encounter when you’re breaking the sex rule. Enjolras steps away from Jehan, gently letting him down.

“Hide,” he whispers urgently, then darts for a towel, kicking their shed uniforms under Joly’s bed as he calls back through the door. “Is there a problem, commander?”

“I’ve had a report,” Javert says simply. “Open this door, cadet.”

Jehan’s slipped into the closet and the towel is secured around Enjolras waist, and there’s little more to be done really, so reluctantly, he hits the button and the door slides open.

“A report of what, sir?” Enjolras asks, his chin jutting in a distinctly insubordinate fashion.

Javert regards him up and down before answering. The commander is known across the academy — and probably, realistically, across all of Starfleet — for his rigidity. To him, the law is paramount. Getting caught breaking any rule by Commander Javert will result as much of a penalty as he can possibly bring down upon poor cadets. And to be honest, the penalties for breaking the no-sex-in-the-dorms rule can be pretty steep.

“A cadet witnessed you and another cadet who is not your roommate entering this room approximately ten minutes ago,” Javert says stiffly. “Upon your entering, the cadet reported a noise disruption that indicated a violation of the sexual relations rule as pertaining to student housing. Where is your uniform, cadet?”

“I was on my way to the shower, _sir_ ,” Enjolras snarls defiantly, fooling no one. “There’s no one else in this room. My previous companion was merely here to borrow a textbook, he has since left.”

Javert side-eyes him and then pushes past him into the room, sniffing around like some kind of bulldog while Enjolras stands helplessly by the door, watching as Javert gets closer and closer to where Jehan is hiding.

Of course the closet _is_ a rather obvious place to hide, and soon Javert opens the closet door to reveal Jehan, still completely naked, his eyes squeezed shut and his face bright red. But as Javert discovers him, Jehan opens his eyes and says with as much dignity as he can muster, “Good evening, commander.”

Enjolras feels a surge of warmth toward him.

Javert merely looks from one to the other witheringly. Enjolras glares back, but Jehan is looking at Enjolras, trying to catch his eye.

“Cadet Prouvaire,” Javert commands, “get dressed.”

As Jehan leaves the closet and goes to retrieve his uniform from under Joly’s bed, Enjolras stays, motionless, where he stands by the door. He’s been staring Javert down, almost challenging him, but when he glances over toward Jehan, their eyes meet.

It’s only for a moment, but in that time, Enjolras catches sight of the meekness in Jehan’s eyes — the kind he hasn’t seen in his boyfriend for quite a while. Jehan looks humiliated.

Instantly defensive of him, Enjolras breaks from his post and strides forward until he stands between Jehan and Javert, shielding Jehan and fixing Javert with an even more confrontational glare than before. Javert scowls back at him — he wasn’t watching Jehan of course, just waiting to escort him out — but says nothing.

Behind Enjolras, Jehan closes his eyes and lets out a breath, hoping Enjolras knows what the small gesture means to him.

Once he’s clothed, Jehan takes a deep breath and steps around Enjolras. He’d reach out and touch his arm or the small of his back in gratitude or in comfort or something, but it would probably just get them into more trouble. Not to mention, Enjolras is too angry right now to receive or even want comfort.

Instead, Jehan waits for Javert to step up to him and take him by the arm.

“I will escort you back to your room,” Javert says. “You will both go before the council tomorrow.”

As he’s taken out, Jehan looks almost longingly back at Enjolras over his shoulder. Enjolras is watching him go, eyes hard, mouth set in a thin line.

When the door slides shut, he turns and slams his fist against the wall in frustration.

_Something_ is going to have to bend here.

And it won’t be him.


End file.
